


The Balance of the World

by Elizabeth Wired (sendal), sendal



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Sandra writes fanfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-25
Updated: 2011-05-25
Packaged: 2017-10-19 18:53:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sendal/pseuds/Elizabeth%20Wired, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sendal/pseuds/sendal





	The Balance of the World

Rodney McKay was exhausted to the core, so tired he could barely remain standing in the middle of the control room, but worse than fatigue was the numbness that had swept over him from head to toe, skin to bone. The last thing he'd clearly heard was Elizabeth Weir saying, "Oh, God." The last thing he'd clearly seen was John's sensor blip disappearing into the inferno of the Hive ships exploding in space. His vision was now cloudy, as if frost had coated his eyes. His hearing was similarly dulled, as if wads of cotton had been stuffed down his ear canals. His sense of balance was off-kilter. He didn't think he could move his hands or feet even if the entire world depended on it, but mostly he couldn't think at all. He couldn't. His towering intellect had collapsed, unable to conceive of a future that didn't include John, and he felt as if he was about to similarly crash into a heap of rubble.

But instead he stayed upright, kept breathing and retained awareness, because that was what he'd been doing for several frantic days now and he didn't know how to stop. The city of Atlantis had been saved, the Wraith threat turned back, but victory and triumph had no place in Rodney's personal world. He would never be able to celebrate, not if the price of survival was the destruction of the man Rodney loved.

"Rodney," Elizabeth said, her hand on his should. "Go to bed. Get some rest."

Rest. An interesting concept, in no way attainable. No matter how tired he was, he wouldn't be able to close his eyes without seeing John's smile, feeling John's hand warm in his own. None of them--not Elizabeth with her red-rimmed eyes, not Everett with his squints and brusqueness--knew about John and Rodney's relationship. His grief--the bottomless chasm of it, the blackness that would stain every day and night of his future--would be locked behind walls of secrecy. Don't ask, never tell, about how his heart had been ripped out of his chest and incinerated along with John's sweetness, John's charm, John's very life.

Elizabeth asked, "Do you need someone to take you?" and in her voice he heard compassion, shared grief. But she had lost a friend and colleague. He had lost his other half.

"No," he said. His voice sounded wooden to his own ears. "I'll be in my quarters."

Even as he descended the stairs toward the Stargate he knew his room was the last place where he would find refuge. Rodney walked stiffly past the gate, that grand portal to planets and tragedy. Atlantis was cold all around him, the color leached out of the pretty mosaics and floor tiles. With most of the city still evacuated, he had the halls and transporters all to himself. Every door was shut solidly against him. Rodney stopped, suddenly unable to breathe past the tightness in his throat. His lungs were concrete blocks, his blood transformed to lead.

"John," he whispered, and leaned against the nearest wall before he lost his balance completely and collapsed to the floor. The metal was smooth and cool against his cheek. Rodney thought maybe the stimulants Carson Beckett had given him had finally run their course, draining away so precipitously that he had nothing left to draw on. Raw, scorching pain began to eat away at the edges of the numbness and he knew that any minute now he was going to start screaming from the agony of it. He pushed away from the wall, determined to get to the infirmary. Carson would put him out of his misery, wouldn't he? Carson would give him something to make the world go dark and quiet, and take away the unnerving feeling that something sharp was scraping against the inside of Rodney's breastbone, clawing its way toward his brain.

But Carson was busy. He and two nurses were busy treating a half-dozen patients who'd scuffled with the Wraith that had invaded the city. McKay stood in the doorway unnoticed, his gaze locked on bloody bandages. He could hear cries of pain and Carson's crisp orders for a clamp. No, it wouldn't do to ask for a sedative or painkiller or a shoulder to rest his head against. Instead Rodney skirted the edges of the infirmary until he came across a dark alcove where the medical staff kept spare supplies and unused equipment. Someone had stowed a gurney in there as well, and without thinking much about it Rodney climbed clumsily over the safety railings and curled up on his side. He didn't even bother to toe off his boots or unfold a blanket. He simply crossed his arms against the cool air and turned his head into the vinyl padding and surrendered to the tilt and swirl of the world around him and the numbness that protected him from everything too painful to contemplate.

It wasn't a pleasant place to be, but not exactly unpleasant, either. He felt his breathing slow, his fists unclench a little. At some point soft hands touched his arms, but he didn't have the energy to shrug them off. Voices swirled around him, far away, unimportant. Some of the coldness left his limbs but he resisted warmth, denied comfort, because the minute he lowered his defenses the horrible pain of John's loss would slip into him with knives to slice and shred and cut him into tiny pieces. Then he heard John's ghost talking to him in low soothing tones, John's ethereal fingers caressing his face.

"Time to wake up now," John was saying. "Come on, McKay. I can't do this without you."

Rodney opened his eyes. The alcove and gurney had both disappeared, replaced by a regular hospital bed and the dim light of the infirmary after-hours. Something sharp was embedded in his arm and the blanket tucked over him was incredibly warm, but those were details, trivial details, compared to the worried, dirty, tired face of John Sheppard, who was sitting right beside him.

"What?" Rodney tried to say, but his throat was as dry as dust and it came out as a croak. Relief tried to replace the numbness but he suspected he was hallucinating, or had gone completely insane.

"Nice to see you," John said. He was smiling, but his eyes were bright with unshed tears. "Next time I come back from saving the planet, no Sleeping Beauty act, okay?"

Rodney really wanted a glass of water. A dozen questions were waiting to get out past his parched tongue, beginning with, "Are you real?" and "How did you survive?" But more importantly, he urgently needed to launch himself into John's arms and squeeze the living shit out of him. He tried, but he was too weak to do anything more than flail under the warm blanket and worsen the stinging in his arm.

"Easy," John warned. He shifted to the edge of the mattress and pulled McKay up from the pillows and held him tight. John smelled like sweat and smoke, and was trembling as if cold, but he was no ghost. He was as solid as the bed beneath Rodney, as nourishing as sunlight after an eternity of darkness.

"I'm glad to see you, too," John said huskily, patting Rodney's back and nuzzling the tender spot under his left ear. All of Rodney's questions could wait: the numbness was banished, the balance of the world restored.

\- finis -


End file.
